


Bid Me Goodbye (With a Kiss and a Lie)

by Lady_Vibeke



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Emotionally Crippled Idiots, F/M, Feelings, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Leonard Snart Lives, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-05-14 09:40:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19270642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Vibeke/pseuds/Lady_Vibeke
Summary: They interact in metaphors, hide behind symbolisms because they don't want to (or can't) face the truth.(Truth being they like each other more they care to admit.)So they play cards when they need to talk.They spar when the sexual tension snaps.They huddle close to each other and drink from the same bottles when all they really want (need?) is a hug and a kiss.It took him a lot of time to realise this (and a lot of bruises, a lot of hangovers) and sometimes he wonders if Sara has realised this, too.But she's smart, she probably has.





	Bid Me Goodbye (With a Kiss and a Lie)

“You're an idiot.”

“Tell me something I don't know.”

Mick snorts over his cheeseburger. The curt glance he casts Leonard could be a sympathetic look or an annoyed glare; it's quite hard to tell, with Mick: emotional nuances are not his forte, but, to be completely honest, they aren't Leonard's forte, either.

“You got the hots for Blondie.”

“Aah,” says Leonard, finally able to place what Mick's odd behaviour is all about. _“That.”_ He has to admit he's impressed: he prides himself to be subtle, especially about his own feelings, and no offence, but Mick isn't exactly the sharpest knife in the drawer. Leonard underestimated his pal's observational skills.

Or his own heart, perhaps.

“Don't worry,” he continues calmly. “I've caught feelings before. Blame it on my delicate constitution. It's nasty, but it always passes.”

He picks up a fry from his plate and munches on it under Mick's unimpressed gaze. The kitchen is silent, as the whole Waverider. The rest of the crew, like most people, isn't really used to consuming junk food in the middle of the night, but Leonard and Mick picked up this awful habit in Central City and are still quite fond of it.

“It's crazy, but,” Mick wipes his mouth over his sleeve and, still holding his burger, points a finger at Leonard. “This one might actually be good for you.”

Leonard picks another of his fries, stares at it with a vague grin before eating it.

People much less interesting than Sara Lance have piqued his interest over the years and, for once, he feels like he's stumbled across someone worth his attention. Someone who is playing hard to get, but that is just a big plus to Sara's credit: Leonard takes no pleasure in pursuing easy targets, whether it is jobs or people.

“There's one problem, though,” adds Mick, as if on a second thought.

Leonard arches his brows sarcastically: “Just one?”

He's had crushes on problematic people before (average humans are boring, seriously) and he's not scared of the demons sleeping in Sara's chest; he's well aware, however, that getting through to her might unveil more (and possibly worse) than he expects. Not that he's not ready for anything; he's fond of Sara as she is – a little broken, a little messed up – and he's all willing to face her at her darkest, if this means that he can get her to trust him.

“Thing is," Mick grumbles. "She probably likes you back.”

Problematic indeed.

Nothing is more dangerous than a love that is returned.

“Yeah,” Leonard realises there is a smirk forming across his lips. He doesn't try to stifle it. “That is unfortunate.”

 

*

 

They interact in metaphors, hide behind symbolisms because they don't want to (or can't) face the truth.

(Truth being they like each other more they care to admit.)

So they play cards when they need to talk.

They spar when the sexual tension snaps.

They huddle close to each other and drink from the same bottles when all they really want (need?) is a hug and a kiss.

It took him a lot of time to realise this (and a lot of bruises, a lot of hangovers) and sometimes he wonders if Sara has realised this, too.

But she's smart, she probably has.

The fact that, despite this, they never acknowledge the elephant in the room makes Leonard a bit more impatient and a bit less confident every day. And it's not that he isn't _trying:_ he seeks her, chases her, waits for her when she needs time before being approached. Like all feral creatures, she cannot be bought with a simple caress.

Trying to get through to Sara Lance is a lot like trying to get to the core of a Russian doll: you keep peeling off layers and layers, feeling like you're getting closer, that soon the real, naked doll will show herself, but not matter how deep he gets, there is always another shell to crack, another mask to drop. Tough as Sara is as a warrior, it's nothing compared to how unattainable she is as a human being. Much to Leonard's frustration and fascination.

Of course, he would never have thought he would have to _die_ – _literally_ – in order to achieve the slightest improvement with her.

 

*

 

There is no peace in death.

It comes, strikes, and wipes everything – wipes _you_ away, but it doesn't bring any peace to the wretched souls who pray for it, no relief.

Leonard Snart never begged for anything in his life, and he surely wasn't begging for the end to come when he put his hand on that god-damned fail-safe in the Oculus, but he wasn't exactly elated to be counting the seconds to his imminent demise, either.

When it happens, he doesn't even blink.

No strings.

(Just a string of regrets.)

He dies a free man.

(He dies a hero.)

When the light explodes into his eyes, the very last thing he remembers is the burn the salty taste of Sara's kiss left on his lips. It's weird, because he can still feel it, even though he doesn't technically exist anymore, the desperate touch, the print of Sara's finger in his arm, their ferocious grip in his flesh. A distant, hazy part of him reminds him that this is how he died, that he's not supposed to be so fond of his final memory, yet here he is, thinking back

(Thinking? How is he even still _thinking?_ )

of something he had been craving so deeply and barely got to savour.

Sara.

Sara, who ran for him so stubbornly and for so long.

Sara, whose adamant stoicism and determination to keep Leonard at a safe distance crumbled in less than a blink the moment she realised she was going to lose him (and, for the briefest moment, Leonard was so perversely smug of himself for bringing those beautiful tears to her eyes).

Sara, who maybe is now mourning him in silence, locked up within herself, curled in a dark corner of the ship, or maybe is chasing denial like a dim light at the end of all darkness.

Sara.

_Sara._

It is probably pretentious of him to assume she would mourn him. Tears... those are almost a given, in the heat of the moment, but _grief?_ Grief is such a personal, intimate sort of emotion, and he isn't so sure he ever got close enough to her to earn the high honour of being _grieved._

"You've got it bad for the kid, huh?" Mick told him once, with a beer in his hand and a sneer on his mouth.

A casual remark that, however, brought Leonard to the sudden realisation that, in fact, he may have let his interest in the young assassin slip a little out of his own control. But Sara Lance was like fire: you couldn't come into contact with her and not get burned.

Correction: Sara still _is_ like fire. Leonard is the one who _was,_ past tense.

 _If you gaze long into_ _an_ _abyss_ _, the_ _abyss_ _will gaze_ _into_ _you,_ according to... was it Nietzsche? Turns out it's not just a fancy aphorism: the staring contest between Leonard's abyss and Sara's had an interesting outcome, with both of them ending up peculiarly enraptured by one another and more than just a little puzzled by the unexpected chemistry simmering between them. Abysses, it seems, have a way of drawing obscure souls together.

Sadly, fate has a way of tearing them apart.

And thus the lack of peace in Leonard's current state of existence (whether it actually _is_ death, he has not yet been able to determine). Thus Leonard's frustration for immolating himself on the pathetic altar of selflessness right when life had given him a very valid reason to be selfish. After all, his spectacular stunt had earned him an even more spectacular farewell, and in this very moment his one and only regret is that he never got a chance to see all the what ifs that were now driving him insane. (If you still could be driven insane, after kicking the bucket, but his capability to still reason doesn't technically imply he still exists, somewhere, at some point in space and time? And if he does still exist, how can he be expected to let go of what he was given just before crossing the line?

Of course there is no peace in death.

How can he be at peace when he left the world with such a bang?

(Literally, not figuratively.)

(Unfortunately enough.)

 

*

 

Life, as it happens, plays sick jokes, sometimes.

It's a sick joke when you're criminal and you're recruited to save the world.

It's a sick joke when the girl you love

(He what, now?)

decides to kiss you while you're dying for her and the rest of your buddies.

It's a sick joke when you're dead... and then you're not.

 

*

 

He's ripped from his state of pure consciousness and slammed back into reality without a warning.

It just happens: one moment he's nowhere, the next he's on the Waverider, in the same kitchen where he and Mick sat eating junk food and talking about the dangers of requited love.

Mick is still here, still sitting on the same chair, still holding a greasy burger. Leonard needs to check the digital clock on wall to make sure he isn't having a post-mortem hallucination (if that is even a thing, but who can he ask?).

So it's been a year and something since he kicked the bucket.

Mick jumps in his chair when he sees him. Leonard is prepared to face the yelling, probably a punch or two, but Mick just stares at him with a mild frown, eyes misty (likely due to the four empty bottles before him), and shrugs.

Mick _shrugs_ at Leonard being in front of him, flesh and bones, after having been dead for a year.

Leonard doesn't really know what is going on, but he's pretty sure he is alive and can't see why this is not a big deal for Mick as it is for himself.

"Hello, Len. Nice to see you, Len. Welcome back from the dead, Len," he drawls, quite offended by his best friend's reaction – or lack thereof.

Utterly unbothered, Mick takes a fifth bottle and, after popping the lid, takes a deep sip from it.

"You're just a figment of my imagination."

"A _figment."_ Well, Leonard is impressed. "Remarkable."

"Shut up, figment."

"Make me."

Mick casts him a crooked half a grin. "You wish."

Banter. Lovely. Just like the old days.

It's just too bad Mick is not taking him seriously. All the way back from death, only to be made fun of? Leonard doesn't really think so.

"Mick," he presses through his teeth. He's starting to feel rather pissed. "Get your head out of your ass. I am right here, you moron!"

Mick drinks again, shakes his head. "No, you're not. Sorry to disappoint."

Yes, he is. Sorry to disappoint.

"I swear, Mick, how can you be eating after such a nasty-"

Leonard's heart seems to stop (and he knows the feeling quite well, by now) before the pair of bright blue eyes that widen in shock as they meet his own.

Sara.

_Sara._

Small, strong, beautiful Sara.

She's standing on the doorway, sleepy and ruffled in her pink pyjamas, looking like a sparrow in a hurricane

(like a Canary in a hurricane.)

and she's staring at Leonard with eyes wide and full of bewilderment.

"- time-quake."

He sees her lips for the word but doesn't hear her voice utter it.

Sara is pale.

Sara is trembling.

Sara is trying to decide if she should kill him first and ask questions after.

"Sara," he soothes, moving a tentative step forward. "I swear it's _me."_

Sara takes a step back. "How can it be you?"

Yeah, how?

"No idea."

"Wait," Mick interjects over a mouthful. "You can see him?"

Sara's chin trembles as she breathes a feeble ' _Yes'._

"Prove it," she hisses. Another step back. Hands curled into tight fists. "Prove you're my Len."

My.

_My._

Not _our._

_My Len._

Oh, that sounds good.

"Maybe a kiss will do the trick?" he offers sardonically. "What do you say?"

Sara flinches.

He chuckles.

_A kiss._

They parted with a kiss.

It would only be fair to reunite with one.

Sara freezes.

Her forehead creases.

Her eyes slowly fill with tears.

(Happy tears?)

(Angry tears.)

"Son of a bitch."

Sara doesn't hit him.

Sara doesn't kiss him.

Sara flings herself at him and crushes the air out of his lungs when her whole body collapses again him and her arms hold him so tight it hurts.

Leonard closes his eyes, clenches his teeth.

It hurts.

He never hurt so beautifully.

 

*

 

There are tears.

They are mostly Mick's.

He punches Leonard's jaw before kneeling next to him and whispering: "I'll never forgive you."

He doesn't say _'for dying in my place',_ but Leonard feels the words hanging in the air between them.

Mick leaves with a grunt, and Leonard finds himself in Sara's arms, being held like he's something precious.

"Sara-"

"No." She tightens her arms around his shoulders, squeezes so hard he feels his bones creak. "Please, no," she says again, and something in the way her voice quivers cuts whatever Leonard was going to say. Her hand rises to his head, pulls him closer to her. Her lips move against his neck. "Just let me-"

He lets her.

 

*

 

If Leonard didn't know better, he would think Sara is starved.

Emotionally, that is.

She goes from holding him to curling into his lap so seamlessly he doesn't really know how it happened. She clings to him, calls him names in whispers too soft to be angry.

Leonard still has some difficulty in placing himself in this updated reality. Sara's weight grounds him, gives his perspective in an environment that is both familiar and completely foreign, somehow.

"What happened to you?" she asks after a long while.

The floor is cold. The lights are dim. She's warm in his arms as they attempt to find a way to come to terms with this inexplicable situation without using too many words.

Words, they found out, are failing them. She can't seem to find the right questions and he only seems to have the wrong answers.

What happened to him, she asks.

As far as he's concerned, _nothing_ happened to him. Quite literally.

"I went somewhere else. _Somewhen_ else. I don't really know."

"He doesn't know," she scoffs, almost amusedly, her head resting on his shoulder. "Maybe it was you," she adds after a brief pause. "Maybe you caused the time-quake."

"Or maybe the time-quake caused me to come back."

Sara lets out a small laugh. He loves how he feels it all through himself.

Here they are, just as they left off: stray spirits drawn together, tangled in one another. If either of them tried to get away from this moment, they'd trip into their own bond, collapse on their knees before moving a single step.

There is something between them – something that _formed,_ developed – and they can't run from it.

(Though Sara tried.)

Perhaps this is why Leonard couldn't be swept away.

Perhaps Sara couldn't let him go.

Perhaps he should admit he didn't want to leave her just yet.

_A string of regrets._

Regret number one: dying a hero.

Ruined reputation apart, heroes don't get happy endings and, frankly, the glory is not worth it. Next time he dies, he's going to make sure it's for vile, selfish reasons.

“I've hated you for so long,” she murmurs as her thumb traces the back of the hand he has on her thigh. “I loved you for what you did and hated you for doing it.”

That's a pretty messed up feeling.

Leonard is a sucker for messed up.

(Did she just say _loved you?_ )

“Now you're back,” she sighs, and looks at him through wet lashes. “What am I supposed to do?”

Leonard doesn't even know what _he's_ supposed to do. What he did, he did exclusively because there would be no _after._ There was not supposed to be an after to confront.

“I need a drink,” he groans. He looks into her eyes, waiting. The shy smile on Sara's lips tells him she gets it.

“Yeah,” Sara nods, her gaze falling to his lips and she inhales slowly. “I might use a drink.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

They are _riduculously_ close.

One year and something ago, he died like this.

He died proudly like this.

Oh, what a fool, dying knowing Sara had finally admitted _something._

He doesn't need a drink: he needs the whole distillery.

(Literally _and_ metaphorically.)

Sara's nose nudges Leonard's as she tilts her head slightly, parting her lips. “Let's have a drink.”

Her voice is torturingly hoarse, and – oh, she definitely, _definitely_ gets it.

The drink.

(The wannabe kiss.)

Everything behind it.

(Loving. Being loved.)

They're still dancing around it, hiding, acting in metaphors because, deep down, they're just a couple of cowards and they know it.

(Cowards, but a couple nonetheless.)

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written anything in a while (mostly due to my disappointment in a few things about the last few episodes of this season), but my love for these people is strong and somehow inspiration strikes when you least expect it and here we are.


End file.
